Master Apprentice Archive Circling Quick search:

Rating: R (implied sex)

Archive: MA

Series: none

Categories: Q/O implied, O/others implied, PWP. Underage sex hinted at. Split POV.

Feedback: Dying for it, please. email above.

Summary: Musings on sex and dancing

Spoilers/Warnings: just the underage thing

Disclaimers: Someday I intend to use my own beloved, beautiful characters to write for fame, fortune and glory. Today is not that day.

(Obi-Wan)

He knows I watch him.

I've been doing it for years: quietly, patiently. Learning what he likes and dislikes, following the way he dresses, stirs his soup, reads his gourmet cuisine holomags. I learned early on how he likes his long, silver brown hair brushed, how he likes caf strong and bitter, but prefers his tea sweet. How he will perform katas in the Gardens rather than the training room any chance he gets. How he meditates on the balcony because he likes to feel the wind. It feels like the Force, if the Force had a physical sensation, he says.

I have always folded my legs to sit at his feet out of habit, but now I do it so I might better observe him.

Sometimes he catches me. Long ago I stopped worrying about it. He knows I'm in love; I think he enjoys the warm, ticklish feeling of it. He likes the way I lean back onto his knee, propping my elbow on his leg as I sip my tea, reading a datapad filled with mission information. I try not to think about the way it would feel to trail my fingertips up the inside of one thigh, but usually I fail. However, I've grown very good at avoiding the mental picture of the way he would tilt his head back slightly, lowering his eyelids and parting his lips to sigh.

I know him too well for my own comfort.

When I stopped shielding my emotions from him, I began to get some strange looks. He would glance up at me in the middle of a discussion on this planet's religious customs or that one's banquet politics, never changing his tone, never missing a beat. But his eyes would deepen and shift, and he would question me silently. I learned to keep my expression abstract and neutral, to reply to his glances with a slightly perplexed question. At times, my handsome, puzzled Master would look at me, confused, and I would ask with a laugh, "What?"

I think I did that because I hoped he would begin it.

Inside, I was thrilled. His looks said nothing of denial or refusal. It felt as good as a "yes," back in those days when my desire was acute and overly sensitive. But I've waited carefully, so that when the time comes, he will know I'm serious. That I'm not acting out of fancy.

It's time.

I know he's heard me at night. Sometimes he hears actual sounds: I try to bite them back, but sometimes I don't try too hard. I want him to know. I want to be caught. I imagine him appearing in my doorway, hair tangled from sleep, wearing nothing but his arousal.

Sometimes he hears me through the bond. I have noticed that when I run my thoughts over the fantasies I like best, when I run my hand over my stomach and down over my hip, he avoids shielding, and admits me. I don't enter purposefully, but I no longer hide. We meet in the middle somewhere, sharing without telling.

Then there are the dreams. They are languid, vivid dreams in which I scream out his name as he takes his completion inside me. I awaken, dimly aware that the scream was only a low moan, a hum in my throat, but I am sticky and hot. Surely he knows what a sudden shower at 0300 means.

That's what comes of wondering how it would feel to have his hands, skilled with thirty-odd years' worth of sexual experience, all over my body. Or wondering how it would feel to have that mouth, surrounded by soft beard, gracing the dip of my stomach, and drifting lower.

I have been content, till now, to leave things. To hope that he might come to me on his own, knowing how I feel. But it's time now. I know that he needs me the way that I need him, we just need to prove it to each other.

I raise my head from the datapad I've been pretending to read for the past hour, in silence, and look at him. He's watching me.

(Qui-Gon)

We've been circling each other for years.

Obi-Wan never went through the awkward teenage crush phase that the other padawans did. He was always so subtle. So intelligent and reserved. At first he shielded; I think for a while he wanted me to ask about it, to question the barrier. It went against the open understanding that we had: that we could tell each other everything. I let it go against our grain because I wanted to respect his privacy and because I saw it for what it was. But at the same time, I didn't see. I thought it was a crush, the same passing crush all of his yearmates had on their masters.

Oh, but by the time he displayed those first signs, I fervently hoped they would hold. It was a slim chance, I always knew, but I wanted it to take. As a Jedi, I am trained, even sworn, to look for the potential, the adulthood, in a young initiate, and to cultivate it. I am meant to coax manhood from gangly awkwardness. Finesse from clumsiness. I had seen Obi-Wan's potential in the instant he first wielded a lightsaber. Ever after, I was struggling to control my desire for the man that I saw him becoming. He would turn his head and look at me sidelong and I would see him in ten years: strong in the Force, intelligent, one with the Light. Gorgeous.

When he began to drop the shields and level serious looks at me, and when he began to teasingly question my observations, we slid into a comfortable dance. We circled around each other, sizing up our feelings and each other's.

I know he wants me to make the move: he expects me to, as though we were on some great chessboard and I could call "check" by stepping diagonally, once. I wish it were so easy.

In spite of all his subtlety, I think he believes I am something out of a piece of fiction: a wise, silent figure who will come to him after years of this circular dance and bring him fulfillment. Some kind of legend. I do not believe I am that person, but damned if I don't want to try to be. He makes me want to be closer to the Force than I am. He makes me want to be some kind of mythical creature from another system. I greatly want to live up to his love for me. He already lives up to mine.

I see him watching me. How can I not?

Once, I went with him to a nightclub that he and his fellow Padawans frequented. He had asked me to come along because he wanted me to see how he spent his time. It was an odd request for a Padawan to make; he knew I respected his desire for time away from me. He didn't take it often, but he knew I trusted his judgement. I tried to decline, but it seemed to mean so much to him. "Just for a while, Master," he had said. "I want to spend some time with you and my friends together." So I went.

I felt silly: a Master beyond twice his age in a dark, pulsing dance arena. I think he took some ribbing from his friends, as well. They kept pulling him aside to shake their heads at him and laugh--"You brought your Master?"-- and sometimes they would glance over at me. He smiled at them, repeatedly, tipping his head down and fidgeting with his braid. Once, a girl tugged him to her shoulder and whispered in his ear, a question. He looked startled, but nodded his head, looking quickly in my direction.

That was when I first began to see. I was in love and so, too, was he.

Of course I thought the evening was rather doomed from the outset; this was well outside my scope. I couldn't really see the draw of the place, myself. I could easily have settled into the evening with a cooking holomag and a cup of tea. But I had dressed in a civilian tunic and leggings of Obi-Wan's choosing, trying hard to fit in for his sake. To his credit he did his best to include me, joking about his yearmates' exploits and teasing that I was now the best-informed master in the Temple. Eventually, they moved away to dance.

He was sixteen then, a slender, gangly boy with all that latent masculinity and proficiency still coiled up inside him. I had caught his elbow many times in those claustrophobic years, when he would stumble over his own feet because his bones had temporarily outgrown his reflexes. But that night, in that dark bar amid the pulsing lights of the dance arena, my eyes met someone else entirely.

He raised his hands above his head and snaked his hips with the music, and I forgot how to breathe. His shirt was short to begin with: the hem of it barely rested on his hips. When he raised his arms, it rode up, baring his pale, muscled stomach. His pants skimmed low over his hipbones, softly flowing over his legs, accentuating the grace that I had, amazingly, never seen before. He was fluid and sinuous. He was suddenly, startlingly, a sexual creature. Spots of colored light landed on his body: a hip, a knee, a shoulder, his hair. I wanted my mouth to find all those places where the light fell. I don't even remember the color of his clothes that night. I only remember that everything in that place highlighted him and screamed at me how sumptuous he was.

This was no clumsy padawan exchanging his boots once a month. This was the kind of man who got propositioned by courtesan scouts for wealthy training houses strictly because he was so painfully attractive. To say his movements were graceful is a gross understatement. Before my very eyes, he had become walking sex. This venerable Jedi Master was no longer seeing his potential in defensive combat or Force sensitivity, but the dormancy in his hands and mouth, and in the thrust of his hips. Good, great Force, I wanted him.

So did everyone else. Two of his friends danced around him, vying for his attention. A third sat sullenly beside me, glaring at the others, staring at Obi-Wan wistfully. Someone I had never seen before appeared beside him, whispering in his ear, and was politely turned away. Oh, he was no virgin. I have my suspicions that he went to bed with both of the padawans dancing with him that night. But in the middle of the throbbing tangle of arms and bodies on that floor, he let his entrancing smile fall away, and he looked at me as his body moved suggestively.

Just looked. For a long, long time.

Then I felt a press against the training bond, and it was thrilling with implication, a phallic thrust. I deflected it gently--I had to--and he smiled. He knew he was too young for me then, still technically classified as a child by Order standards. But not by mine. Had we no regulations to follow, the circling would have ended that very night in a blind rush of hands and mouths. And he knew it. And he wanted it.

And to my surprise and pleasure, he wants it still, six years later.

I find myself staring at him. He has a datapad in his lap, but his eyes aren't moving over it. He's gazing through it distantly, and part of me wants to brush his mind through the bond, ask for his thoughts. The other part of me simply knows he's doing the same thing I am: daydreaming, remembering, longing.

Right now, I can't remember why I haven't already taken him to bed. And as I wonder at this, he looks up at me.

He sets his datapad aside, and rises. I rise, too. We go for each other, straight down the middle of the room. No invisible polarity between us, nothing left to circle around. Then his hands are in my hair and my mouth is on his, hot after all these years of waiting for this moment.

Check.

End